We Come In Peace: The Take Me to Your Leader remix
by auberus11
Summary: In which Alex Krycek acquires an unlikely new ally in his quest to save the world, and Spike finds that aliens are nearly as much fun to kill as Slayers. Set after the third season of BtVS and after the fourth season of the XFiles. Yes, I know the timel
1. Vampires and Assassins and Aliens, Oh My

**We Come in Peace****_ (the Take Me to Your Leader remix)_**  
_a BtVS/X-Files crossover by auberus _**_  
_**_rated R for mature language and situations (including slash)._****

**Part I. Vampires, Assassins, and Aliens - Oh, My!**

Alex moves cautiously down the alleyway, no longer bothering with the charade of keeping his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched, his head slightly down. There's no one here he needs to look harmless for. If he's lucky, the shapeshifter ten feet in front of him won't even know he's there until it's dying. The shifters are unbelievably strong, with speed to match, but they're not too bright -- and not very observant.

Apparently Alex is not terribly observant either, because something steps out of the shadows less than two feet in front of the shifter, something that neither Alex nor his prey had known was there.

Whatever it is looks human enough - except for its face. There is nothing at all human about a ridged forehead, yellow eyes, and a mouth full of fangs, despite the black jeans and leather duster the thing is wearing. It seems to have materialized out of the shadows behind it, despite the shine of its slicked-back platinum-bleached hair in the dim light.

It - no, Alex amends, _he_ - because whatever this thing may be, it'sclearlymale - _he_ stops, blocking the shifter's way. There is a gleaming, predatory expression on his face, and the smile curling at one corner of his mouth would be enough to make Alex take a half-step back, even without the fangs.

The alien stops, pulled aside from whatever the fuck it was doing by the obvious danger in front of it.

" 'Scuse me," the thing says, in a lower-class British accent that's as incongruous as he is: "I'll just be eating you now." The words match his smile - and his teeth - and Alex pulls his gun from its holster. The alien doesn't move.

"Dumb as a post, I see," the whatever-he-is continues. "Well, no matter." He reaches out an arm with unnatural speed and grabs the shifter by the back of the head, even as he lunges for its throat and sinks his fangs into its neck. The next second, he pushes the shifter away with enough force that the thing actually staggers. He wipes at his mouth with the back of one hand, swearing and spitting toxic green ichor.

"Ow! Bloody hell!" He spits again, then raises his head to stare suspiciously at the alien.

But he isn't dying, isn't clawing at his eyes, and he's gotten a whole mouthful of the alien's blood. He's even swallowed some of it, from what Alex can see.

"What the-" he begins.

The alien cuts him off, grabbing him by the throat and slamming him up against the brick wall of the alley. Instead of widening in fear, though, the yellow eyes narrow with fury and he lashes out with his fists, growling curses through the stranglehold on his neck.

Alex takes advantages of the alien's distraction and moves, plunging the ice pick into the kill spot at the base of the thing's neck. It freezes and falls, dissolving even as it hits the ground. The thing it was holding falls too, but he lands neatly on his feet, staring at the dissolving alien with a combination of disgust and fascination.

"What the bloody hell was that?" he demands, his expression a combination of curiosity and disappointed disgust.

"Alien," Alex tells him, tightening his grip on both the ice pick and the gun in his other hand. "What the hell are you?"

"Vampire," he says matter-of-factly.

"Vampire, huh," Alex says. He doesn't really believe the guy, despite the eyes and fangs. Mutants and government projects are one thing; vampires are another. "Mulder'd love it."

"Who's Mulder? Who are you? And what the bleeding hell is an alien doing in my alley!" He's obviously frustrated; his voice rises to a near-shout as he finishes the last sentence.

"Trying to take over the world," Alex tells him, answering the most important question first. If this guy's got an immunity to the aliens' blood, Alex can use him, and that sentence is always a good hook. "I'm Krycek. And Mulder's... a long story."

The whatever-he-is looks briefly down at the mess on the pavement, then back up at Alex, inhuman eyes considering, weighing. Alex starts to bring the gun up at the expression on his face. Then it passes, slides from threat and hunger into a different sort of consideration.

"So, what would that mean, aliens taking over the world?" He says it casually, like a man asking what rain would do to someone's weekend plans, but Alex can see the interest in his face.

"It would mean everybody like that," Alex tells him seriously, gesturing at the rapidly disappearing green puddle with one foot. "The few humans left would be rounded up and enslaved."

"Everybody like them? They don't taste very good."

Alex is fairly sure that that's an understatement.

"No sense of humor, either," he says, and receives a terrifying, fanged grin in response that changes to a frown as the yellow eyes stare down at the remains of the alien.

"Any chance of stopping them?" he asks medatatively.

Alex smiles. "I'm working on it."

Another smile, and the man's face_ shifts_, fangs disappearing as the ridges in his forehead slide into pale, flawless skin; a human mask drawn smoothly over the monster beneath, the disguise impenetrable. His new face is younger than Alex's own and breathtakingly handsome, with a sensual mouth and cheekbones as sharp as the knives Alex always carries.

Only his eyes give him away. They may be blue now, but there is something cold and dark and razor-edged beneath the surface warmth that shivers Alex's skin with recognition and warning. He steps across the remnants of the alien, and puts a hand on Alex's arm.

"Why don't you buy me a drink and tell me all about it," he says smoothly. Then, after a minute: "Got another one of those ice pick things?"

Alex can't keep the smile off his own face.

"I can get you one."

"Good." The satisfaction in the man's voice is palpable. "I'm Spike, by the way."

"Alex."

"Nice to meet you." He sounds completely sincere.

* * *

Spike pulls Alex into the first bar they come to, pushing his way through the crowd to claim a corner table. He starts to put his back to the wall, then stops, looks narrow-eyed at Alex and takes the other seat, sliding into it with deadly, arrogant grace.

Alex sits down across from him and looks him over. He's younger than he seemed back in the alley; younger than Alex, certainly. The only flaw on his pale, angular face is the scar slicing through his left eyebrow, and it changes him from a punk into something much more dangerous, even if Alex didn't know what that face hides.

Spike signals the waitress, and watches her walk off with their order, eyes intent, before turning his attention back to Alex.

"Sorry, mate. 'M starting to get a bit peckish." He rubs one black-nailed hand over his stomach, frowning slightly. "Those aliens of yours don't go down so well."

"Were you really trying to _eat_ him?" Alex asks, and receives a Look in return.

"To borrow a local phrase, duh." Spike tilts his head to the side. "Well, to drink his blood, at any rate. Thought he was human."

"You're really a vampire," Alex says. He can hear the skepticism in his voice, and so can Spike, who chuckles; a low, dark sound that raises the hair on the back of Alex's neck even as it causes the first flutterings of desire deep in his stomach. The dichotomy is erotic enough to disturb even Alex.

"I really am." Spike slides one hand across the table palm up, his blue eyes gleaming with amusement. "Check my pulse."

Alex puts two fingers over the vein in Spike's wrist and waits for a heartbeat. And waits. Spike's veins remain silent, and even in the heat of a California summer, his skin is cool and dry under Alex's fingers.

Alex's eyes widen involuntarily, and the vampire - the _vampire_ - smirks.

"We can do the whole mirror bit later," he says. Alex tries to repress a shiver at the darkly amused tone of the vampire's voice. He's not certain if his reaction is from fear or lust.

Belatedly, he realizes that his hand is still on Spike's wrist, and he pulls it away. As he does so, Spike lifts his own fingers slightly, letting the tips of them trace over the delicate skin of Alex's palm in a near-caress, curling them just enough to catch Alex's hand for a moment. The lingering coldness in the vampire's blue eyes has been replaced by a smouldering heat that causes Alex's heart to beat fast enough for both of them.

"What about sunlight?" Alex asks, keeping his voice even with some effort. It's a near-desperate attempt to distract himself, but he realizes once he speaks that he's nearly as full of questions as Mulder would be. "And crosses?"

Spike grimaces, but the intensity of his gaze does not lessen. "Those I prefer to avoid."

"You can't move around in the day at all?" Hauling a corpse around all day will prove a serious liability.

"Didn't say that, pet. Just have to stay out of direct sunlight is all, if you don't want to see me go up in flames." He smirks again. "I've even got a car. Painted the windows black and she drives as sweet as you please, though there is the occasional fatality."

Alex is certain that the last sentence is an understatement. He's also certain that most of the fatalities Spike is involved with have nothing to do with his car.

"What else?" he asks.

"Holy water, decapitation, an' wooden stakes," Spike shrugs. "We're none too fond of fire, either. An' once, there was this organ - but don't get me started on that one."

"How old are you?" Alex asks. He's betting Spike is somewhere in the neighborhood of forty or fifty, the vintage punk look a carryover from mortal life, so the answer is surprising.

"A hundred and twenty," the vampire says, "or thereabouts."

Alex does a quick calculation in his head.

"You were born in 1878?"

"1854. Turned in 1880." He doesn't elaborate, and after a second, tilts his head to the side and fixes Alex with a piercing stare. "What about you, Krycek? What's the story on these aliens of yours?" The sheer intensity of his regard is unsettling, arousing, and vaguely flattering.

"It's a long one," Alex warns him, surprised and

"'S not like I'm gonna die of old age, is it?"

* * *

"Sir?"

The hand holding the cigarette comes down; one finger taps the ashes free of the ember at its tip.

"Yes?" The word is exhaled dryly on a curl of smoke. Cold eyes fix on the man at his door.

"You asked us to keep an eye out for Alex Krycek - to tell you if he showed up anywhere. Two days ago, he was caught by a surveillance camera in a bar in Dallas."

* * *

"Krycek is here, in the back corner. As you can see, he is not alone."

One nicotine stained finger tapped the screen, where a platinum-haired man in a leather duster could be seen sitting opposite Alex Krycek. The blond was talking animatedly, gesturing with both hands as he spoke, the cigarette in his left scattering ash across the table.

"We have yet to identify his companion. None of our domestic law enforcement or intelligence agencies have any real information on him; neither does Interpol. There are...sightings, however." He placed a file on the desk, opening it with the careful precision that always attended his movements.

"In 1997, Czech authorities had to disperse a mob that formed in Prague and attacked two foreigners. One was a man fitting our new friend's description; the other was a woman with long dark hair. The reports stated that the two were suspected of more than 50 murders between them, all occuring within a six month period. In 1995, a man fitting his description was listed as a suspect in twenty two homicides in New Orleans. In 1992, his description was circulated in connection with eighteen unsolved homicides along the I-95 corridor from Miami to Richmond. In 1986, he and a dark-haired woman were being sought for questioning by the authorities in Vienna regarding a massacre in a hotel that left thirty-three people dead, and two severely wounded. In 1983 --"

"Just how far back does this man's apparent crime spree go?" one of the other men at the table interrupted.

"1978. Fourteen dead bodies in Whitechapel, and ten more in the Hyde Park area." A pause, as the speaker took a deep drag from his cigarette. "Nearly sixty percent of all of the victims suffered massive neck trauma and exsanguinated, without nearly enough blood being found at the scene."

The other man snorted. "Are you suggesting that that man-" He gestured toward the screen, where Krycek's companion had just lit another cigarette, and was apparently using it to emphasize a particular point - "is some kind of vampire? This sounds like something Agent Mulder would be interested in. It's nonsense."

The first speaker started to respond, then closed his mouth around the unspoken retort. Pointing the increasingly-obstructive Agent Mulder at Alex Krycek was the equivalent of personally delivering an ICBM, and adding a vampire into the mix would only increase Mulder's eagerness to track Krycek down. A vampire - especially one as obviously dangerous as Alex's new friend was - was far too dangerous an ally for an enemy to have.

The other alternative was to contact Maggie Walsh, but the Initiative was still in its initial phases and might not yet be equipped to handle a situation of this magnitiude. That course of action would also necessitate revealing the Initiative to his colleagues, and he preferred to keep his secrets to himself. No, best to set Mulder onto the Alex like a bloodhound onto the scent - and to keep this, too, close to the vest.

* * *

_Author's Notes: The first part of this story is a remix of Cody Nelson's brilliant fic Take Me to Your Leader. Cody is one of the original pillars of the X-Files fandom, and I first read that story when X-Files fic was the only fic I read. (Cody is, by the way, still one of my favourite authors in fandom.) It lingered. Later, when I started reading BtVS fic, it came roaring back with this attatched to it. _

_Feedback is love. _


	2. The FBI's Most Unwanted

**Part II: The F.B.I.'s Most Unwanted**

Alex has just enough time to hear the snarled_ 'Krycek!' _before he's slammed into the wall and Mulder's fist is flying towards his face at what he knows from experience will feel like a hundred miles an hour.

The blow doesn't land. A pale, black-nailed hand wraps itself around Mulder's fist, and even though Alex can't see the pressure those slender fingers exert, Mulder squeaks and his fist unclenches. The next moment, Mulder's other hand is pried free of Alex's collar and Mulder himself is jerked backwards and away.

When Alex looks, Spike is holding Mulder in the air with one hand twisted into his collar as Mulder's feet dangle about an inch or so off the ground. It is obvious that Spike is not really exerting himself, despite the difference in their heights.

Mulder is gurgling. Spike is smiling.

Alex rubs at his throat.

"Can I kill _this_ one?" Spike asks, voice dark with bloodlust and annoyance.

_"No," _Alex rasps, still massaging his throat. "Put him _down,_ Spike."

For a long, terrible moment, he thinks that Spike might not listen, that he will snap Mulder's neck with the same casual twist of his free hand that Alex has seen so often in the past three weeks.

Then Spike puts Mulder down, or rather, lets him go. Mulder falls to the ground, trying to untwist his collar and get a breath of air. Somehow, Alex is having trouble feeling too sorry for him.

"Oh," Spike says, "I almost forgot." He bends over Mulder, then straightens with a gun in each hand. He offers them to Alex, handling them with surprising confidence for a man who's been dead for more than a century.

"You might want these," he says, pushing Mulder back down casually with one booted foot as he tries to keep Alex from getting the guns.

"Thanks," Alex says, taking them one at a time and tucking Mulder's main weapon in his belt. Aiming the man's own backup weapon at him, he motions Spike out of the way with a jerk of his head. The vampire complies with a look of displeasure.

"Are you going to calm down now, Mulder?" Alex asks him.

"You killed my father," Mulder spits. "Why should I calm down?"

"This is Mulder?" Spike asks, then interrupts whatever he was going to say with: "You killed his father?"

"He was involved up to his eyebrows," Alex snaps at Spike, who looks supremely unconcerned.

"It don't matter to me either way, mate," he says lazily. "I did for my own mother, so there's no stones coming from this direction."

"Thank you, Spike," Alex says drily, and receives a shrug in return.

Mulder's reaction to True Vampire Confessions is fairly predictable: he tries to get up again, swearing in fury. It's enough to irritate Spike into direct action: he leans down and grabs Mulder by the back of the neck, hauling him to his feet with one hand and an audible growl.

"Will you hold still?" he snarls, giving Mulder a tooth-rattling shake. "You're outnumbered and outgunned, and even Alex here can only keep me in check for so long. You're irritating me, and I'm_ hungry."_

There's a world of intent in the last word. Mulder may not realise exactly what has him by the neck, but he's far from stupid. He goes limp in Spike's grasp. His mouth, however, keeps moving.

_Genius or no, you couldn't fill a thimble with his common sense_, Alex thinks.

"Who's your new friend, Krycek?" Mulder asks. "Another serial killer? A cannibal?"

Spike raises an eyebrow at Alex. "You're a serial killer? I thought you were an assassin-slash-alien hunter, pet." Adding, with a shake to Mulder's collar that threatens to remove his head from his neck: "An' I'm not a sodding cannibal. For one thing, cannibals are_ human."_ He growls the last word, slipping into gameface as he speaks.

"What are you?" Mulder demands. "An alien? _How did you do that?"_ Spike lets go of Mulder with an exasperated snort.

"Isn't anyone afraid of me any more? I'm a _vampire,_ you idiot, not somewhat to pester with a fuckload of annoying questions while it's got you by the throat. Gerrit?"

Mulder opens his mouth - probably to ask another question - and Spike is behind him, one hand tangled in his hair, the other pinning his arms to his sides, his fangs pressing against the arch of Mulder's exposed throat. A stunned second later, Spike releases him and is half-way back to Alex before Mulder realises that he's gone, shifted back to human face in an instant.

"Alex here has a safe pass from me, but there's not many of us who want anything from any of you - with the exception of dinner. You're alive because Alex wants it that way, but keep pressing me an' I'll have your guts for garlands." He turns to Alex with a grin, the deadly intensity sliding down a few notches. "Me an' Dru did that for Christmas one year. I think it was 1952. Somewhere in Nebraska."

Alex knows he should cut him off. Spike's stories are dubious at their best, horrific at their worst, and the gleam in the vampire's eyes says that this one will probably be the latter.

"Got invited in by this fat, happy farm family on Christmas Eve, an' Dru got it into her head that if we saved the kiddies for him, Santa Claus might put in an appearance." He chuckles reminiscently. "Anyway, we tied the little bleeders up - or rather, I did, as Dru was busy scolding the Christmas tree - an' bunged them into the cellar. When I got back, Dru'd disembowelled mum an' dad, an' was busy replacing the tinsel with loops of guts. Said the tinsel was lookin' at her," he finishes, smiling fondly. "She's as crazy as a flock of loons, my Dru."

"What about the kids?" Mulder asks, an expression of unwilling, horrified fasination on his face.

"Hm? Oh, the kids. Right. St. Nick never did show, so we left 'em down there till sunset, then ate 'em before we left." Spike grins. "Good times."

* * *

They get Mulder into the car, struggling and swearing the entire time. Or rather, Spike does. Left to his own devices, Alex would have ordered Mulder into the vehicle at gunpoint, but the vampire manhandles 190-odd pounds of furiously resisting FBI agent into the back seat with about as much difficulty as Alex would have had with an angry toddler. 

Alex could do something similar, using pressure points and nasty holds learned from nastier men, but Spike isn't using any fancy tricks, or threatening evisceration and mangled limbs as he sometimes does when feeling melodramatic. He's just that much stronger than Mulder is - and by extension, that much stronger than Alex is, too. 

Alex spares a moment to be grateful that Spike finds him diverting. He's taken to carrying a stake since that night in Tucson, but he's not certain that he'll win if Spike gets hungry enough, or irritated enough - or _bored_ enough - to decide that snacking on Alex might keep him entertained for the next five minutes. Currently he's just glad that Spike is holding Mulder relatively immobile, as he doesn't particularly want to kill all of them - well, himself and Mulder - in a car crash. 

Besides, he needs to think.

He's not sure why Mulder turned up, though he's fairly sure that someone deliberately sent the man his way. He reminds himself to thank whoever did it in an unpleasant fashion some time in the future. Mulder is not only a diversion; he's a fucking homing signal for anyone who might be looking for Alex, because where Alex is invisible, Mulder is about as conspicuous as a neon sign on a dark night. Alex's life would be infinitely smoother if he were to feed Mulder to Spike and let the vampire do... whatever it is he does with the bodies he doesn't want found. Things would be _simpler._ But whoever sent Mulder his way might be banking on just that - or they might be banking on Alex's unwillingness to kill the man, though he doesn't think he's been stupid enough to let anyone notice that particular weakness.

Either way, Mulder's presence is intended to cause chaos and distraction, and Alex needs to come up with some sort of solution, quickly.

The hotel room he's been sharing with Spike has a sofa, but Spike digs a set of manacles out of the trunk of his car, along with three vintage punk records, a battered copy of Lord of the Flies, and a human femur. The records and the femur he throws back into the trunk; the book he brings upstairs with him, shoved into one coat pocket on top of the manacles.

"Right," he says cheerfully to Mulder, "time to chain you up for the night, pet."

Mulder, who has always had more courage than sense, swears at him. Alex is impressed by the vulgarity and variety of the language he employs, and Spike raises both eyebrows approvingly.

"I can see why you like him," he says to Alex, and in the shocked silence of Mulder's gaze, Alex can think of nothing to say for long moments. Finally, he addresses himself to Spike.

"Where were you planning on putting him?"

"Well, I could chain him to your bed, if you like," Spike offers. "Or to mine, if you don't want him."

"No," Alex manages. Mulder is looking at him with a combination of horror and relief that he finds distinctly unnerving. Spike shrugs, looking supremely unconcerned. 

"Fine," he says. "We can put him in the bathtub." 

Mulder, perhaps realizing that this is the best possible option, doesn't even protest as Spike chains him expertly to the pipes. Alex can't help smiling when he notices Mulder staring avidly at Spike's non-reflection in the mirror, but when Mulder looks his way, he wipes his expression clean.

He doesn't manage it in time. Mulder's eyes are tense on his face, unreadable and waiting.

* * *

Next time, Mulder thinks sourly, he will leave a note detailing exactly where he's gone and why. Scully, though no fool, will rush after him into places that would have the bravest angel cowering in fear. If necessary, she will bring the entire FBI with her, and damn the consequences. Next time, he will definitely leave a note.

If there_ is_ a next time. If he had been thinking clearly, he would have left a note this time. Nothing good has ever come of mysterious hints as to Alex Krycek's location.

This goes beyond _'nothing good'_, and into the realm of _'freakishly catastastrophic.' _

Mulder prides himself on his open mind, on his ability to accept the unusual, the strange, the downright freakish, with barely a blink. The fact remains that Alex Krycek has apparently taken up with a sociopathic uber-punk British vampire named Spike, and the pair of them have kidnapped him and chained him, unharmed, to a bathtub in the local Four Seasons. This is a little much for anyone, he thinks, somewhat hysterically.

Spike frightens him, truly frightens him, in a deeper. more primitive way than the worst of the human monsters he'd once dealt with used to. The vampire's presence activates that squirming impulse in his hindbrain that says run, that tells him he's prey, a toy, an object to be used and discarded with no more thought than he himself would give an empty beer can. That pale, handsome young face with those grave-cold blue eyes looking out of it is one of the most terrifying things Mulder has ever seen. The casual way Spike had discussed the murders of an entire family, smiling faintly as if in pleasant reminiscence -- and the only thing standing between him and Mulder is Alex Krycek.

This is not a pleasant thought. 

Krycek killed his father. Mulder has never doubted this, and tonight Krycek hadn't denied it. He'd even given a reason for it, though he'd been talking to Spike at the time. He was involved in it up to his eyebrows. And Spike, to Krycek: You're a serial killer? I thought you were an assassin-slash-alien hunter, pet. 

Which means that Krycek knows about the aliens, and not only knows about them but is actively trying to kill them, and if Krycek is against the aliens, then Mulder has an entirely new set of problems to deal with; namely, is Alex Krycek, against all the odds, actually working for the side of light and humanity? Or are the aliens really the goodguys?

The evidence for either Krycek or the aliens being secretly on Mulder's side is, in both cases, so slim as to be actually negative. Of course, the aliens didn't kill Mulder's father; but then, Krycek didn't abduct Mulder's sister. As far as Mulder knows, Krycek doesn't abduct people from their beds and experiment on them in attempts to dominate mankind. In fact, given what Spike has said, Krycek is apparently against that sort of thing.

Which means that Krycek really might be working for the side of light and humanity. 

It is typical of Krycek that his chosen partner in this quest is practically a charter member in the Forces of Darkness, and is even less ambiguously evil than Cancer Man.

Of course, Spike is probably fairly good at killing aliens, and anything else unfortunate enough to attract his attention. He hasn't killed Krycek though, or Mulder - not that Mulder would give anyone else good odds, especially if Krycek is otherwise occupied, or if Spike is sufficiently motivated.

Mulder has gathered from Spike's conversation that boredom is, for him, sufficient motivation for anything, up to and including random massacre of passers-by.

He hopes fervently that Krycek has an actual hold over the vampire and not just the promise of killing aliens for entertainment -- or that Krycek knows how to kill him. Mulder can't see Krycek working with something he can't kill. He can't exacctly picture Krycek waving a cross around for protection, either.

Mulder shifts in the bathtub, checking the limits of his manacles, but he's securely chained. It's probably better if he doesn't think about how practiced Spike's movements were when he put the chains on, or where the vampire might have acquired that practice.

The vampire. Mulder's been trying to avoid irritating him, because no matter what Scully might think he does possess some survival instincts, but he's nearly ready to explode with unasked questions. He's fairly certain that Krycek is well aware of the fact, as the bastard looked downright amused while Spike was dangling Mulder from one hand. The fact that Spike is able to pick him up like a kitten strikes Mulder as distinctly unfair, as the vampire is shorter than he is. 

It is proof that the rumors of vampiric strength are true, though, and Mulder spends a few contented moments conjecturing relative strengths of vampires and humans, given himself and Spike as reference points. He realizes fairly quickly that -** a.** Spike is much, much stronger than he is, and **b.** This is not entertaining enough to keep him from screaming with boredom. An alternate plan is in order.

* * *


	3. Break In

  
"This is a bad idea," Spike says. 

The words are enough to make Alex pause. Spike, after all, is the king, queen, and crown prince of bad ideas and half-cocked plans, and if he thinks they shouldn't be doing this, well, then, they probably shouldn't. Come to think of it, this plan was originally one of Spike's, which probably means that they really shouldn't do it. Unfortunately, Alex is trying to save the world. He doesn't really have time for words like 'shouldn't.'

"We need this book," he says. "Unless you know where another copy is...?" 

"I'd have bloody well told you if I did," Spike says. "This is the only one I've ever seen, and to top it off, it's been a good while since I did see it. The pouf might've gotten rid of it, even."

"We don't have a choice," Alex says, then corrects himself. "I don't have a choice. You can do whatever you want."

Spike's sudden grin is breathtaking. Alex finds himself marveling for what feels like the thousandth time at how alive the vampire looks.

"I didn't say I wasn't going to come along, pet," he says. "Just said it was a bad idea, that's all."

"Well, thank you for the helpful reminder," Alex says irritably. 

"What," Angel asks, in tones of great displeasure, "are you doing here?"

Spike gives him the two-fingered salute, despite the difficulty of doing so whilst being shaken violently by his collar. Apparently the Great Pouf is still brassed off about the spot of torture Spike put him through during their last little reunion. Spike tries for a pithy comment on the subject, but the hand on his collar is cutting off his air, and all he manages is a scornful whisper of 'Peaches' in Angel's general direction. He's not one to let a little thing like lack of air stop him, though, and mouths several cutting insults that Angel understands well enough, if the anger in his face is anything to go by. 

Now would be the perfect time for Alex to come racing to the rescue, but Angel cuts that hope short by whirling abruptly and thrusting Spike into the path of the oncoming stake. Alex manages to pull the blow, with reflexes that are almost fast enough to do credit to a Slayer, and turns his attack into a vicious kick to Angel's knee that very nearly lands. The kick is followed by two sharp blows to the side of Angel's head that cause the older vampire to loosen his grip on Spike's collar, and Spike is sliding free with a grin even as Alex switches his stake for his gun, and presses the barrel hard against the soft flesh under Angel's chin. 

"That's not going to do you much good, boy," Angel growls at Alex, and Spike, rubbing his throat, grins fiercely and impartially at both of them.

"It'll make a milkshake out of your brain," Alex says, low and deadly. "Hydroshocks, vampire. It's hard to heal if your skull is in a thousand sticky pieces decorating the wall behind you." 

Angel seems impressed by the visual, because his facial expression changes slightly. Vampires might be walking bundles of death and destruction by nature, but Alex practices , and it shows.

"I'd listen to him," Spike offers. "He's a professional."

"What are you doing here?" Angel asks again. He lets go of Alex, though, and he sounds more harassed than angry. "Who is this, Spike?" 

"That's what I'd like to know," Alex puts in. 

"Alex, this is my great poncing wanker of a sire. Angelus, this is Alex. We're saving the world."

Spike's 'great poncing wanker of a sire' is not the oversized, hulking caveman-type that Alex has been led to expect. Angelus is no taller than Alex is, though he's bulkier - an unimportant factor with an opponent who can literally tear your head off. Alex is suddenly very aware that he is the least dangerous thing in the room; quite literally prey. 

The sudden lazy-eyed look that Spike sends his way is proof enough that Alex should have considered this earlier. His hindbrain is sending sudden, panicked signals, but Alex has been in worse situations, has faced down and killed things that were even more blood-curdling than the two demonically-animated corpses standing in front of him. He gives Spike his coldest stare, and gets a smirk of approval in return. 

Angelus is apparently not unaware of the byplay, though it seems to confuse him as much as Spike's announcement about saving the world. 

"Spike," he says evenly, in the tones of a man whose patience has been pushed to its final limits, "you are going to explain what's going on, and you are going to do so in a coherent fashion. Otherwise - " The motion of his hand is too fast for Alex to follow with his eyes, but the vampire pauses for the merest fraction of a second, and that is warning enough. Alex is moving before Angelus is. He doesn't bother with pulling the gun out of reach; instead he takes one long, quick step backwards. 

It's almost enough. Angelus snags the gun by the barrel and twists it out of Alex's hand with a wrench that leaves his fingers stinging and aching. He goes for his backup with his left hand, but Angelus has the gun aimed at Spike now, and Alex wasn't kidding about the effect of hydroshock rounds on the human skull. The vampire is the best ally he's found yet, even taking into account the casualties. 

"Otherwise," Angelus continues, "I'm going to see just how well your friend's bullets work."

Spike rolls his eyes.

"Fine. Take all the fun out of it, you tosser." He opens his mouth, then stops and looks at Alex. 

"You tell him, pet," Spike says. "He won't believe it coming from me."

"What makes you think I'll believe it coming from him?" Angelus asks. Alex thinks this is a valid point. 

"Because Alex is serious," Spike says, "which you bloody well know, or you ought to; he not only got the drop on you, mate, but he nearly managed to keep his gun - and how many times has that happened, then? You'll believe Alex because he's a dangerous man - and men that dangerous don't waste their time on the sort of nonsense you'll think we're selling if you hear it from my lips. Besides, he's human. You can tell if he's lying." 

Angelus gives him a considering look, then gives Alex one. His eyes are surprisingly human. There is regret there, deep in the shadows of his gaze, and empathy - neither of which has ever shown up in Spike's incredibly varied emotional repetoire. A throwaway comment of Spike's resurfaces in Alex's brain -- besouled wanker. Alex thinks it might explain the eyes.

"All right," Angelus says. "Let's start with who exactly you are, then. And believe me when I say that Spike is right -- I will know if you lie to me." Alex has to give the vampire credit -- he knows enough to let the 'and I won't like it' hover unsaid in the air. He's glad they left Mulder in the trunk. Spike won't particularly care who Alex really is; he doesn't think Angelus will either, save to use as a reference point for his story. Mulder, on the other hand... 

"My name is Alex," he begins, then stops. He can't remember the last time he'd told someone who he really was; can't remember if he'd ever told anyone.

"Keep going," Angelus suggests. 

"My name is Alexei Nikolaevitch Rasilnov. I was an agent-in-place for the KGB until the collapse of the Soviet Union; afterwards, the political climate and previous position of my family under the old regime made return...inadviseable. At any rate, I was approached by representatives with a private interest; representatives for men in positions of near-unimaginable power both in government and out of it. Instead of reporting to the Directorate, I was to report to them; at first, that's all it was. By the time I managed to escape them, they'd turned me into a paid assassin, among other things." 

"But you did escape," Angelus says. 

"Yes. And now I'm trying to stop them."

"That's where the saving the world bit comes in," Spike says helpfully.

"Where do you come in?" Angelus mutters. "More importantly, when do you go away?" Alex is fairly sure he doesn't want an answer to either question. Spike, typically, answers the first and ignores the second.

"I was bored," he shrugs.

"Of course," Angelus says dryly, then turns his attention back to Alex.

"So, what are your former bosses trying to do? Summon a demon? Open a Hellmouth?"

"Orchestrate an alien colonization of Earth, the aim of which would be the enslavement of the human race," Alex says deadpan, because he really can't resist. The startled look on Angelus's face is the most emotion he's displayed yet. 


	4. Confusion

Angel really needs to stop being surprised by Spike. He needs Spike to be in another country - in another dimension, preferably. One from which he will _never return_. 

Because really, what is Angel supposed to do when _Spike_ breaks into the Hyperion to steal one of his _books_? That alone has got to be a sign of impending apocalypse, especially when Spike's backup consists of a Russian assassin with eyes as cold as any vampire's, and a story out of a bad science fiction movie.

"Are you _sure_ they're not demons?" Angel asks.

"Fairly sure," Spike says. "They look human enough - even smell right - but the blood tastes... off."

"You tried to eat one. Why does that not surprise me?" Angel asks the ceiling.

"Don't play the snob now. You spent a century in the gutter eating rats. Alien blood will probably taste like ambrosia in comparison."

"Alien blood," Alex says dryly, "is green, and acidic."

"Not on!" Spike protests. "I was gonna see if I could get him to take a bite out of one."

"I don't eat people, Spike." Angel _really_ wishes that Spike would go away.

"Why not?" Alex asks. "Spike does."

Angel glares at Spike. "You're trying to save the world and you're still eating people? Don't you see anything wrong with that?"

"Not really," Spike shrugs. "After all, I'm trying to save the world so that I can go on eating people, aren't I? Well, eating people an' watching football."

"You're disgusting, Spike."

"You're singing my song, Peaches," he sneers. "Fun an' jokes aside, if these aliens of Alex's win, I don't think they'll care much about good an' evil, or human versus demon. They strike me as the 'kill 'em all an' let God sort 'em out' types."

"You would know," Angel spits. 

Spike smiles proudly. "Bloody right, I would. These are the take-no-prisoners sort and no mista- oh, bugger."

"What?" Angel asks. "What?!" Spike is looking at Alex, and the assassin's eyes widen in sudden comprehension.

"We left Agent Mulder in the trunk," Spike says.

* * *

Agent Mulder turns out to be Special Agent Fox Mulder, FBI. Spike ushers him none too gently into the room, one hand gripping his collar, and points at Angel.

"That over there? Is a friendly vampire. Go ahead an' ask him all the questions you're afraid to annoy me with."

"Spike," Angel warns, but it's too late. Agent Mulder is apparently afraid to ask Spike much of anything -- either that, or Spike has kept him gagged for most of the time he's held him captive. After about five minutes, Angel is betting on the latter. Spike and his pet assassin are deep in conference on the other side of the room, and although they both look deadly serious, Angel gets the feeling that they're laughing at him.

* * *

_Author's Notes: As always, feedback is used to feed the plotbunnies. _


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